"Though to us it conceivably was
  A thing of rather greater weight
We closed the door and made him stand upon the step
  As if the urn of ashes in his hand
Were just some gritty sweepings,
  Rather than the essence of your earthly state."

"While we argued in a ghoulish whisper, he got wet
  And bored with carrying your can,
So, stooping, put it down behind the milk, and went away,
  Where she, my wife I mean, found you later in the day,
Orphaned yet again, right back where life began."